Religion and Angling, Daydreaming in Class, Making Dreams Real, and Making the Real Dream

As a tournament bass fisherman in my teens with a B.A.S.S. local chapter and New Jersey State Federation, I was totally naive to the influence of religion on angling. Not that tournaments would have anything to do with it, but that it now seems as if the whole game is a Christian crusade. I grew up Episcopal, had heard the fishers of men phrase, was granted permission to fish the ponds owned by the Princeton Day School eight miles from home by the Headmaster who sang in one of the choirs my father directed, but I never associated religion and fishing and didn't consider myself religious, although I loved to perform music. I associated science and fishing, never confusing fishing with science, but keeping a relationship to my passionate interest in science developed between the ages of four and 11. I put the image of Christ up for this post not becauase I worship it, but because it symbolizes taking everything in life within and embracing it all as a complete, happy abundance right here in this world. That's what the outstretched arms symbolize rather than wavering over a worshipping herd of sheep. And if you read the Bible, Jesus says as much himself about abundance.

I went to Lynchburg College in Virginia because bass fishing is better in the south, although by the time I selected the school, I had already abandoned ambitions to continue with my outdoor writing and also abandoned ambitions to hit the national tournament circuit and reap those rewards. I had won plenty of trophies on the local scene against men mostly twice my age and certainly had more energy than required to fish at the national level. I gave it all up to pursue a literary career. Just turned 17, I had a strange experience motivating me to write a short story entitled The Dead. I had not yet heard of James Joyce. I wrote the story entire without getting out of my chair, then regarded it with profound curiosity. It took nearly another year to be convinced that novel writing was what I wanted to guide my life towards, early in my senior year.

Some months into that last of high school, I had another experience, which did not impress me as strange. Our Western Civilization class was assigned to write a paper on Napolean Bonaparte, mine finished in about 15 minutes as if I took it straight from dictation, except that I was conscious of making subtle adjustments to arrange its ideation congruently with my own. But despite my ability to turn out astonishing papers in other classes also, which won special distinction from teachers all through high school, I graduated in the center of my class, ranked 143 of 286, my problem holding attention and doing homework held grades down all along. I daydreamed all day long while sitting in classrooms with distracting artificial lighting. Since I never figured out how to pay attention and conceptually integrate class material to an A standard, I fused experience by imagination while thinking over myself and over the whole academic program. On occasion, during almost any class period, I knew just when to snap out of my distance and attend an issue. And of course a B minus grade overall isn't bad, but I endured school very conscious of the state attendance mandate and feeling in disagreement with it; overwhelmingly most of what I learned was from outside the state funded academic program. I did very well at disciplining myself to pay attention in class my first semester of college--because we paid money for this. And I made sure to quit college as soon as I became certain I would not do as well there, as to go away and study great books alone. 

And what's the use of all that religion if it doesn't bind together your whole life as a seamless completion, reality and dreams together, dreams becoming reality and reality becoming dreams? A happy life, in other words. A happy life in spite of all the persuasions to the contrary, in spite of the "common unhappiness" Sigmund Freud suggested people should experience, for example, and other dissuasions against the human experience, happy and free of worshiping anything that asks you to sacrifice for it, or offers to be a sacrifice for you.

Besides, Jesus stood before Pontius Pilate and refused. He never offered himself; he did just the opposite by keeping his word. True to his own logic, he died just as would any hero who knows that some things are worth dying for. It could be said that this is a most profound paradox because his death on the cross proved to be his central contribution. But the essence of the matter is that Jesus challenged authority and refused to back down.

Banks of Green Willow George Butterworth Complete Living in a Beauracratic Age

Some anglers experience fishing as a get away. Isaak Walton, author of The Compleat Angler in 17th century Britain, wrote "Let us go a fishing," as it was a way to exit the turmoil of his times between Protestant and Anglican Christianity, an all out civil war. I live my life as seamlessly as possible rather than compartmentalize it as if my mind were a beurocrat in charge. Modern people typically fragment themselves into conflicting interests as confused as Congress. Rather than separate fishing from the rest of my life, I consider the crisis of civilization we all live through now and simply recognize that nature is not and never has been a place apart from what we produce. Even Neolithic man a hundred thousand years ago impacted the environment deeply by use of fire to aid in hunting. When I was very young, ten years old, I had an obsessive desire to experience pristine wilderness. The way I worded this: Nature completely untouched by the man made. I spent plenty of time in wild places, but in this respect I seemed to spend more time very deep in my own mind attempting to imagine a perfectly pristine place, but actually discovering the purest reality that exists: the untrammeled human spirit. No better purity exists than within the being responsible for spoiling the environment. The dull theme of so much environmentalism--that man is an evil, destructive being--is not true.

George Butterworth is another British figure associated wtih war, having died fighting in World War One. His best known musical composition, Banks of Green Willow, expresses what it is to be an eternally youthful angler better than any other music I know. I hear no longing or yearning in the music; it is entirely present as if a goal inherant in all eternity is reached. The clarinet is subtly distant, as if a slow breeze is heard around a stream bend. The flute solo, following, is the very soul standing in open air sunlit on banks of green willow.

Existence cannot come from nothing; present time always implies past and future. So existence is eternal. The flute solo in Banks of Green Willow sounds like something that can happen not once, but over and over again, eternally possible. The earth is sometimes referred to mysteriously as this earth, as if planets like it can happen again and again forever, even if separated by whole, recurrent universes, trillions of years. What is a trillion years to eternity? The important value is your own life. If you don't live it now, will you live it a trillion years in the future?

Long Beach Island, North Carolina Outer Banks, California, Santa Fe, Comparisons, Northeast Corridor Why Planet and Industry are United

You can tell by the pictures I loaded--all from the Outer Banks, North Carolina--where my heart is. (Two are Chesapeake Bay/Bridge/Tunnel, Virginia.) When I shellfished for 13 years off Long Beach Island, New Jersey, I had a camera only for the last six years, and used it little. I was focused on studies and writing and wanted distraction neither from my photography hobby or fishing. Shellfishing about four hours a day, sometimes two for months running, was enough. Otherwise, I kept active at all sorts of enjoyments with my girlfriend. It's worth putting this stuff online. Robert Plant's line comes to mind from "Oh, Rosie Girl," or "How Many More Times?" That there's no need to hide or run.

First vacationed on the Outer Banks 1969. More and less ever since.

My quandary began in 1982 when I really got serious about clamming as the way to earn a living while I studied. I wasn't sure if I should clam on LBI or on the Outer Banks. Communication back then was not like today. I really didn't know if clamming existed on the Banks until I visited there in 1996. But I had suspected.

Outer Banks pure, more solitary, aesthetically superior for natural form, have deep, deep memories of mine embedded.

But I imagined society on the Banks would be lacking.

Long Beach Island clammers not only associated with one another by respectful distance. The year round hard core who worked in, not on, the water even in January--all 20 somethings besides one or two early 30's--more and less shared a free spirit philosophy.

I was the only one intensely intellectual, although one of us saved enough of his earnings to earn a Psy. D. in psychology from Rutgers. I didn't speak like an "intellectual," nor was I only "one of the guys." The purpose of my studies involved eventually making money. Writing is all I can really do. I do a million things besides, but not one of the things I do isn't in the service of my purpose as writer.

Hurricane Sandy virtually left all the boardwalks behind us, just as if Bruce Springsteen foresaw this decades before. But like any society, New Jersey rebounds. Twentieth century Jewish Prophet, philosopher, and anthropologist, Martin Buber, wrote that resistance sustains until God crashes the very roof over the head. But fortunately, no tree fell on our house, though climate change deniers could get a rude awakening. Buber spoke hyperbole at not very far remove from reality. First thing out of my mouth when my brother Rick phoned the morning after 90 mph winds had raked his house a mile from the beach: "Jobs are created." Why not be upbeat? That's how things get done.

I like New Jersey more than North Carolina, even though I have a deep, deep sentimental attachment to that southern state where I played the radio on stations and found songs I loved before Starbuck's song, "Moonlight, Feels Right," came out, as if in answer. I always felt I could do without scattered doses of potion, and have done without this form of vernacular sunshine, but at least the song had an association to a girl way, way back in 9th grade. Opens with an electronic sound wave like the modification of a steeple bell.

I wouldn't live in this state if I didn't feel its industrial challenge is worthwhile, at least by the fundamental principle of the free mind, which applies to art and business alike. I know about Superfund projects and lesser environmental disasters, just as I am wholly optimistic about the open space revolution in this state. 

Philadelphia was just 60 or so miles away when I lived on LBI. My girlfriend Maureen lived on the city's outskirts. We traveled back and forth constantly, sometimes listening to the rock DJ with "the Animal," on WMMR. From Philadelphia, we traveled north and west in Pennsylvania. We always got around to various places. I always noted in my accounts that I was "at Lawrence," rather than "at my parents'" when I visited my hometown township of that name. I had thought of leaving it all for a new start in California, then I considered Santa Fe, flew out there, and found the place a bore. LBI is a resort fantasy in a way, but I thought of it better than Santa Fe. 

The wilderness of bays sustained me, and having the Boulevard to drive, usually just minutes or so a day connected me with any and all venues. With Maureen, the Island's attractions always became charming. But towards the end I called the whole place a backwater. Not the bays. The bays are a part of the planet inseparable from the whole. I found my life in them. Even more than I had found my life on Stony Brook of Princeton Township and the ponds of Princeton Day School. 

But I had to go. And now I drive 150 mile weekdays through some of the busiest of the Northeast Corridor. No backwater. It's the most important place in the world.

12/1/12 Put a picture of Maureen and I up at the bottom of the post. Why not? Don't think she'll try to sue me. :-)

Check out the tan! December bronze. January, February, and March too--year round sun!

Round Valley Reservoir Trout Attempt: Sweetest Feeling in Weeks

About time I got back to fishing lunch hours. Driving along the Delaware & Raritan Canal well before I got to Round Valley, I thought of how much fun I had last fall, even though I caught few pickerel. Sometimes the thoughts I have while fishing make my steps dance involuntarily. I recall Stony Brook in Princeton Township during my teens and the way I danced on rocks as I covered fishing range--not even knowing the stability of stones until they took my weight--that could have broken legs. I moved like a wild creature, but ecstatic with feeling no beast can ever know. The clacking sound had a resonance like percussion subtly suggesting time deeper than I knew, seemingly having foreshadowed life ahead.

I simply lay my body down on that dock after I whipped out my marshmallows and mealworm, propped up my arm on my elbow and read a favorite novel by Victor Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris. 

It was the sweetest feeling I've known in weeks. I didn't even think of my getting skunked.

Lake Hopatong Jigging & Herring Attempt at Walleye and Hybrid Stripers.

Obviously a nice morning on the lake if photos of natural events don't bore you. The feeling I get from the photos is sweet and simple at first take, but actually being there was more. Besides, there's enough variation of form and color to interest me in these images.

 

We fished four hours and got skunked the first time in five years' fishing from Laurie's boats. I had thought Dows Boat Rentals were closed for the season, but they will be open next weekend also. Winds went in the direction contrary to wrecking the place during the recent hurricane.

Water temperature was 45, so I told my son, Matt, that it was almost like ice fishing from a boat. Temperatures at bottom under ice are 37 to as high as 39. Could be in the low 40's on the bottom now.  We marked loads of fish off Chestnut Point, suspended over 50 to 55 feet of water 37 to 22 feet down, but even with our herring placed right among them, none took. And no one else I spoke to caught any either.

Best moments included contemplations of changes of light and form by the positions and amounts of clouds in the sky, and jigging a Gotcha at Sharp's Rock. That was our last stop, way up lake from the dock. Lots of sun on my face, the water slightly riffled, the huge face of glacial stone before me felt complementary to my awareness. Air temperatures had climbed out of the crisp 20's we ventured out into in the dark before dawn, and my hands felt nimble as I worked the jigger deftly. I became clearly aware, as I maneuvered with the electric motor, that if this was like ice fishing from a boat, it sure has better odds than cutting holes to jig through one little spot at a time.

Winter Trout Stocking in New Jersey Makes for Angling Possibilities

Piece I had published in Recorder Newspapers last year on New Jersey winter trout stocking. Haven't been out fishing for over two weeks. May go out on Hopatcong Sunday. Nice cold, grayish weather today. I never really noticed the sun anyhow. Upper 40's forecast for Sunday, so it will be zesty if I go. Can't wait for mile high, frozen January skies. Hope so.

Winter trout stocking makes fresh angling possible

By Bruce Litton

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          The fall stream stockings well over a month past, plenty of good-size trout remain, 14 to 16 inches, and some much larger. During the third week of this month, a number of ponds in our region receive 14 to 18-inch trout from the Pequest Hatchery. Those that escape late fall anglers, and ice fishermen through the winter, will be full of wild zest this coming spring.

          Mount Hope Pond in Rockaway Township, Morris County, that difficult 18-acre bass pond I’ve written about, has plenty of open water depths of 15 feet for trout to range. Ice fishermen seem to do better than shore anglers do, before the freeze, by cutting many holes and alternating their jigging between them. The same is true of 10-acre Amwell Lake in Hunterdon County, although I don’t know about ice fishing on Speedwell Lake near Morristown, Morris County, also stocked. All of these ponds receive between 160 to 200 large trout, more than enough to provide interest, and possibly an encounter with the biggest trout of a lifetime for many.

          If you haven’t put away your rods and reels, my suggestion is to take a clue from Round Valley Reservoir trout fishermen, and try small marshmallows and mealworms on a plain shank, size 6 hook. The marshmallow will float the mealworm—and trout take the combination. Otherwise, Berkeley Powerbait also floats on the same hook, but my best advice to you is to purchase live medium shiners—and use the same hook through the back near the dorsal fin. For any of these choices, a large split shot for weight allows a relatively short cast to reach deep enough water near the bank. But if you feel the need to gain great casting distance, use a half-ounce egg sinker behind a barrel swivel separating your leader from the main line.

         If you ask me, the best approach is ice fishing, but that’s my opinion, although it’s well informed. The stillness of life locked under the unyielding surface of a frozen lake does wonders for contemplative serenity quite unlike any other kind of pursuit. The pond remains alive beneath forbidding hardwater, but you either smash through it with a split bar, or use an auger. Iron rod or modern technology, both work, but the split rod requires energy and muscle. I have used a split rod all these 40 or so years. I got fascinated in power augers and bought one, but I'll never throw out the bar and will bring it along on my ventures and possibly use it instead. Nothing warms against temperatures as low as zero or colder as breaking ice does. Break on through--it rewards you with heat, exercised muscles, and energy.

          Raise a trout through the threshold of ice into another world in which you stand with your short jigging rod. It’s a perfect analogy to spiritual seeking of all traditions, finding the truth within and beneath the threshold of common awareness, fishing in a world warmer and fluid with life sealed off from dead winter. It is below, but the life transcends that of any non-mammalian or bird metabolism above during this season. Small silver spoons like eighth-ounce Kastmasters serve as probes of reflected light that trout become lured to, but the silvery scales of a shiner on a plain-hook jig may attract trout even better for being natural. Tip-ups can serve shiners too. 

         Still waters are not the only places for trout through winter: dozens of rivers and streams in our region provide good fishing. The key to encountering trout during the coldest weeks is not necessarily that the stream is fall stocked, but that it has sufficient limestone springs to keep it from freezing over. The Pequest River in Warren County, my first choice, I hope to fly fish with nymphs in December. But the Musconetcong River from Hackettstown southward, the Paulinskill River near Blairstown and Stillwater, The South and North Branch Raritan Rivers in Hunterdon and Somerset, are all tranquil places of solitude and colorful trout. Smaller streams like the Dunnfield Creek and Van Campens Brook in the Delaware Watergap National Recreation Area feature wild and native trout year round and sufficienly spring fed, less likely to freeze. Those who know how to be quiet and subtle in their surroundings are privy to catching fish, as well as likely to admire the catch and release of them. Catching colors in black and white winter is special.

          Winter is traditionally a time to think and reflect, and it’s no different out fishing. The action is slower, the environment stripped of lush growth and warm sensations, and most of the colors have vanished, except in those trout you catch. The challenge is to adjust to and appreciate a relatively harsh world. Success in this pursuit—a few fish help—brings rewards of serenity and peace, which may seem sharply ironic to anyone who has been uncomfortable in winter weather. Winter may have a sharp edge like ice, but so may the cutting edge of thought. And with persistence, thought brings out energies from within that require a natural setting to meet them.

         Use that thought to make a catch. The “Father of Structure Fishing,” Buck Perry, stated that knowledge is the key to fishing success. But it’s not only what you know, but endeavoring to learn what you will know. The process of observation and thinking is every bit as important to catching fish as what you have already learned on the water—or have read in this column or otherwise. It is possible to never rest on what you have already learned, although long moments of with what is enough for the time being bring deep, relaxed fulfillment.

          

  

Angling, Ancient Druids and English Henges, Intuition and Modern Communication

Today at Round Valley I shot photos, full of ideas otherwise and enjoying every step I took on the earth that never betrays me, although ideas can; one needs to be careful and very smart. I sat on a stone. My camera near my lap, I adjusted settings to review recent shots. A bright idea dawned on me. I walked back to the car and wrote the following by hand. 

I've included some photos from my extended family's recent travels in England. This is simply becauase the Druids and their henges remind me of the primal intuitions we anglers enjoy. No, the alleged human sacrifices do not so remind me, and I'm not convinced they did that.

The Druids constructed henges to aid in their primitive intellectual comprehension of the cosmos. Stones reveal markings that point to star configurations (not necessarily constellations perhaps). Apparently, some of the Druids labored intensely to map the night sky. The henges are sorts of microcosmic enclosures. Within them, they ritualized knowledge gained.

The ancient Druids are profoundly distant from our modern times, but deeply respectable--apart from killing young girls, if they did. Respectable for intellectual aspirations. To say that an angler such as myself obtains intuitions anything like theirs would raise eyebrows. But I can speak for myself and say that if I lacked the ability to not only link my intuitions to our time, but transform them by a process made more and less effortless by discipline into modern, communicable form, then I would live in my own private Idaho.